“Yes.”

“So how do you square this with your Lord? Your idea of retribution doesn’t exactly conform to the turn-the-other-cheek preaching of Jesus Christ.”

“Nice try.” Rapp grinned.

“How do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you a little secret about me. I’m not the most patient guy. I have a lot to learn, and I’m eager to learn it, so when you start to hit me with selective theology you might get my back up a bit.”

“Selective?” Lewis asked.

“Yeah. I’ve never understood the intellectual dishonesty of people who say the Bible is the word of God and then choose to pull verses only from the New Testament, for example. Turning the other cheek is one of their favorites, and they use it, while ignoring a dozen Old Testament verses and a few New Testament verses that say the men who brought down that plane deserve to die.”

Lewis conceded with a nod. “So, if it comes to it … you don’t think you’d have a problem taking another man’s life?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Who the guy is, and more important, what he’s guilty of.”

CHAPTER 15

WHEN the sun rose for the fifth day they were one man short. It was Dick. Rapp didn’t know the guy’s real name, much less where he was from or where he was going, so it was hard to feel too bad when the guy stepped out of formation during a grueling set of up-downs in the hot afternoon sun. He simply approached one of the instructors, announced his intention, and the two men shook hands. Just like that the guy was done. Free of the pain, the sweating, the burning muscles, the tired eyes, and the battered ego. It all seemed too easy, and that’s what scared the crap out of Rapp.

It made him briefly wonder if he was capable of pussing out. All it would take was a down moment. A bad spell, a cold, or a fever or another sleepless night. One misstep and he could be the one shaking hands and packing his bag. While falling asleep that night, Rapp focused on the positive. There was one man fewer to compete with. They kept saying it wasn’t a competition, but Rapp wasn’t so sure. If it wasn’t a competition, why did they count or clock everything they did? The image of the fellow recruit bowing out after five days put Rapp on guard against a moment of personal weakness. It refocused him by showing just how rapidly this journey could come to a very unsatisfying end.

Rapp awoke tired but ready to push ahead. He was the first one on the line and was stretching his neck and shoulders waiting for the others when he noticed the two instructors having what looked like an unpleasant conversation. When everyone was finally on the line, Sergeant Jones stepped forward and with a disappointed look on his face said, “One of you screwed up real bad last night.”

Rapp began racking his brain trying to think of any mistakes he’d made.

“We have rules for a reason. At this point you don’t need to understand these rules, you just need to follow them.” He paused to look each of them in the eye. “You have all been repeatedly warned to not divulge any personal information. Now … we’re realistic enough to understand that you boys will discover certain things about each other. Some of you have a slight accent, so it’s pretty easy to figure out what part of the country you come from. As far as prior military experience, we haven’t busted your balls over debating the healthy rivalry between the services, but last night, someone crossed the line.” He stopped and looked at the ground. In a disappointed voice he said, “The one thing you are never supposed to do is tell someone your real name.”

Rapp heard someone farther down the line mumble something under his breath, but he couldn’t tell who it was, and considering the mood of the two instructors, he didn’t dare look.

“You are all smart enough to know this, and you were all warned what would happen if you slipped up on this one. This isn’t a fucking summer camp. This is serious shit,” Sergeant Jones said in a disappointed voice. He looked to the far end of the line and said, “Bill, pack your shit. You’re gone.”

The man they called Bill, whom Rapp had pegged as the hot-shooting Navy SEAL from Texas, took one step forward and shook his head at the harsh punishment he’d just received. He looked as if he was going to say something and then caught himself. Sergeant Jones started moving and told Bill to follow him back to the barn. Sergeant Smith stepped in to lead them in PT, but before he could start Bill turned back to the group.

“Victor, you’re a real asshole. I told you I didn’t want to talk, but you just wouldn’t leave it alone.” Looking at Sergeant Jones, he asked, “Why isn’t he getting the boot as well?”

“Keep moving. We’ll talk about it in the barn.”

“This is bullshit. He told me who he was and where he was from. Same as me,” Bill complained.

Victor laughed. “I gave you a fake name, you stupid hick.”

“Why the hell would you do that?” one of the guys farther down the line asked Victor.

“Asshole,” someone else grumbled.

“You guys should all be thanking me,” Victor said in an easy voice. “One less guy to worry about.”

Sergeant Smith silenced all of them with a growling order to assume the position. “The next one of you who opens his pie hole is gone. Now push ’em out.”

Rapp dropped his chest down to the dewy grass and pushed straight up, quietly counting out each push-up as he went. He’d done so many in the past five days that they were becoming second nature—almost like breathing. Somewhere past number forty and before number fifty, Rapp began feeling some serious ill will toward Victor. If only the big jackass would stumble and break an ankle. He was too risky to have around. For the rest of the morning, as they ran from one thing to the next, Rapp couldn’t shake the feeling that he and Victor were on a collision course. With Dick quitting and Bill getting the boot, that meant two fewer people to run interference. Victor could focus more of his time on pestering Rapp.

The long run was actually nice, since Victor was the slowest of the group. They were spared his running mouth. When breakfast rolled around they all gave him the cold shoulder. It didn’t matter to Victor, though. He stayed chatty, continuing to dole out insults and the occasional wise-ass comment that the instructors seemed to take better than they should have. They spent an hour on the obstacle course and another hour on the pistol range before heading back in for lunch. The attitude among the recruits was decidedly sour. It was as if they had a traitor in their midst. After lunch they went over field-stripping various handguns, and then it was announced that they were heading into the barn for a little hand-to-hand combat.

For Rapp it was his first time back on the mat since the day he’d arrived. He had wondered where the mean old cuss had gone, and had almost asked Sergeant Smith, but the guy wasn’t exactly keen on sharing information. Jones and Smith paired the men up. Since there were five, someone had to be the odd man out and it turned out to be Rapp. The rules were simple: no blows to the head or groin. Choke holds were encouraged, but they warned the men to be careful not to crush anyone’s larynx. If you wanted out all you had to do was tap the mat. Right before they started the blond-haired shrink quietly slipped into the barn.

The first two men up were Roy and Glenn. Rapp hadn’t figured out where either of them was from, and wasn’t about to ask. Like all of them, the two men were dark-featured, with black hair, brown eyes, and tan skin. Roy was five-ten and Glenn was perhaps an inch taller. Rapp guessed they were both around twenty-seven. He was not overly impressed with their fighting styles. They both used standard judo techniques. Lots of holds and throws, but nothing that could be used to incapacitate an enemy in one quick flurry. Technically, they were sound, and they were both tough enough, and in good enough shape, to draw out a lengthy, tiring, boring match.